


Better Than Bourbon

by iwtv



Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Jealousy, Over-protectiveness, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 21:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv
Summary: Everything is wrong. Everything except for Trish. But Jessica feels her anxiety pulling her stomach into a knot.They are just hopelessly in love with each other. Quick shots of seasons 1 and 2 with some flashbacks, then post-season 2.





	Better Than Bourbon

She thinks about herself as a dichotomy these days: Jessica before Kilgrave and Jessica after Kilgrave. The schism that splits those two time periods is sharp and jagged, with no constants save for one.

Finding out that Kilgrave was spying on her on a daily basis had jarred her. The disgusting room plastered with photos of her all over it sent ice water running through her veins. There was a specific word for that type of behavior: obsession. Trying to cope with what Kilgrave had done to her—what he’d made her do—had been difficult enough, but learning that the man was now fixated on her made her stomach flip again.

She’d revisited the locations in the photos of her, hoping in vain for some clue or insight. But it had done nothing for her. At the end of the day she is tired and buzzed from the dark amber liquid she’d fed herself all day, but when she gets to her shitty apartment to curl up with more whiskey she feels the emptiness of it like a black hole. She wants her constant badly.

She shrugs her shoulders and takes off her jacket, tossing it on the chair. It slides off to the floor. She narrows her eyes at it as though the jacket is spiting her and yanks a bottle out of her desk drawer. She takes a long swig, welcoming the familiar burn as it slides down her throat. But she doesn’t sit down. Instead she picks up her jacket and throws it back on.

*

Fifteen-year old Jessica takes a good long aim with the flat stone in her fingers before throwing it across the surface of the river. It skips three times before sinking to the bottom. She frowns.

“Current must be too strong,” she says.

Trish smirks, quirking her eyebrows at her and casually tossing around her own stone in her hand. Then she goes up to the riverbank. She sticks the tip of her tongue out in concentration and lets the stone fly. It skips three, four, five, six times before gravity claims it. She pumps her fists in the air.

“Yes! I am officially the stone-throwing champ!” she declares.

Jessica rolls her eyes and snorts.

“Feeling good, are you?”

“Well I need to be good at something since I don’t have your abilities,” Trish smarts back.

At that, Jessica grins smugly at her and walks over to a large boulder. It probably weighs a good sixty or so pounds. She reaches down with both hands and lifts it easily. She then sends it hurling through the air, where it lands in the middle of the river with an impressive thud and splash. It’s definitely a less elegant move than Trish’s stone-throwing skills and they both end up laughing.

“You’re nuts, you know that?” says Trish.

Jessica just shrugs.

“I prefer to think of it as a character flaw.”

“Yea well, I like it.”

Trish kisses her on her cheek, her words like a silk scarf that wraps around Jessica. It might be the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to her.

*

When Trish opens the door Jessica’s mouth ticks upward at the blonde. Trish registers her, eyes swooping over her as part of her ritual assessment. For the past seventeen years, and especially the last six months since Kilgrave, Trish has never failed to look at her this way, eyes flitting back up to Jessica’s face with eternal concern. It takes most of her will not to acknowledge it.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Trish steps aside and she walks in, arms crossed too tightly against herself.

“You know there’s other fragrances you could try besides Wild Turkey 101,” Trish quips. “I hear J’adore and Chanel are still good.”

Jessica turns away from the well fortified and neat apartment. Trish is giving her that subtle teasing look through her brows. This is where Jessica knows she’s supposed to roll her eyes and say something sarcastic. Instead it all sticks hard in her throat when their eyes meet again. She’s trying like hell to stay like stone but Trish’s brows instantly pull together. How the fuck Trish can read her like this is still a mystery.

“What is it?” Trish asks, taking a step closer. “Is it Kilgrave?”

“Fuck Kilgrave. I don’t wanna talk about him now.”

“Okay,” Trish replies in that slow tone, adjusting to her friend’s mood.

Everything is wrong. Everything except for Trish. But Jessica feels her anxiety pulling her stomach into a knot.

“I just…”

She cuts off, staring at Trish’s kitchen counter. God. Why does everything in her life, even the simplest of things, have to feel like a chore? Trish makes it worse by stepping closer and touching her hand. Her skin is warm. Her thumb drags itself just barely along the side of Jessica’s palm. She’s probably not even aware she’s done it.

The touch zings through her body, as potent as any whiskey. And just as greedily Jessica gives up on her control. She takes Trish’s face between her palms and kisses her hard on the lips. She feels Trish’s body jerk a little, startled. A muffled sound comes from her throat but a second later and her lips are parted. Jessica kisses her again and again, fingers sifting through her hair.

“Jess, Jesus, what—”

Her question is marred by Jessica’s mouth and Jessica feels the moment Trish stops trying to ask it and gives in. She pushes her body into Jessica’s, hands cupping her face and forcing her tongue against her own. The rush of contact after six months without makes Jessica moan. When they finally break for air they are both panting. Trish looks at her with pure, unfiltered desire and Jessica knows her weakness is fully exposed. There is no saying no to Trish. There never has been. And, she hopes, there never will be.

*

It’s hard for her to fall apart in Trish’s arms now, but somehow she still can.

It happens in stages, beginning with the first kiss. When they make it to the bedroom and Jessica starts to undress she feels too vulnerable, too exposed. But she pushes past it. Trish’s hands roaming freely over her body help.

By the time they are entwined together in bed and Trish’s fingers are deep inside her she’s ready to break. Still she holds back as long as she can. She wants to prolong the moment, to see if she can ever be rocked so hard and stay quiet but so far it’s always been a losing battle.

This time is no different. She has one ankle thrown over Trish’s back. Her hands are clinging to Trish, keeping the other woman’s body close to her own. Her thighs are trembling and her lips finally part, needing more air as Trish pulls a tune from her entire being. She feels her orgasm creeping up in slow motion.

“Fuck,” she pants out into Trish’s ear. Her throat is dry but the rest of her is wet, oh so wet. Trish’s other hand is over her breast. It’s replaced by her lips and teeth moments later and Jessica lets out a low moan.

“Trish,” she whispers down at her, in a voice never heard by another living person.

Trish knows what it means and she works harder, fingers moving fast now. The spark spreads out from Jessica’s belly and turns into a wildfire. Her eyes screw shut and her back arches. The sound is punched up into her throat as she comes.

“That’s it, come for me,” Trish says in a raw whisper.

Jessica rides out the wave, acutely aware of every part of Trish looming over her. She finally gasps for air and Trish’s fingers slow down, until she’s just barely moving them in an achingly slow circle.

When they’re done Trish collapses on her back and Jessica stares at her, one arm thrown over Trish’s waist. She kisses her bare shoulder. Trish turns her head and gives her a glowing smile.

It’s even easy to smile back now.

*

The depths of Kilgrave’s deluded state of mind shocks her even as she forces herself to do as he commands.

He’s looking at her with nothing but triumph in manic eyes.

“It’s finally over. You’re mine now. No more fighting.”

This is almost as bad being raped again.

She wants desperately to look over the bastard’s shoulder at Trish. The asshole had just forced her to kiss him and she’d been powerless against him. Worse, as each second ticks by and Kilgrave speaks to her, his face sucking all the oxygen out of her lungs, she knows Trish thinks she’s under his spell again. Silently she finds herself repeating the same words over in her mind to her friend.

_I’m sorry. I am so sorry._

It takes all her will power not to let another tear run down her cheek. But she can’t. This is it, she realizes. She has him right where she wants him.

She makes herself smile for him.

It’s a smile she’s only ever freely given to the terrified woman standing behind them.

Kilgrave buys it, hook, line, and sinker. He chuckles at her and whispers into her ear, “Tell me you love me.”

_Now._

She peers over Kilgrave’s shoulder at Trish. The other woman’s face is taunt, all her fear behind her eyes.

“I love you.”

Trish blinks and clarity comes rushing back to her face. Jessica sees the tiniest of smiles on her lips right before she lifts Kilgrave off the ground and snaps his neck.

*

It takes her longer this time.

She stays at her apartment for two days. She sleeps only a little. Her thoughts are fueled by hatred at Kilgrave. Somehow she hates him even more in death. The bastard made her kill. Willingly.

She knows it had to be done and she knows she had to be the one to do it. And yet she can’t get the word ‘murderer’ out of her head.

She lets the liquor do its work on her. When she’s too drunk to walk straight she passes out on her bed, kicking off her jeans just before the peace of oblivion finds her.

The third day she finally turns her phone back on.

Trish has called. Five times.

 

This time when Trish opens her door Jessica’s words don’t stick in her throat.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For…everything.”

She takes a breath and huffs it back out. Lame.

Trish assesses her and this time her expression is so soft Jessica almost can’t stand it. It fades into a familiar smirk.

“That’s…so specific. I know exactly what you’re talking about,” the blonde replies with a little grin.

Beautiful, amazing Trish. She’s not even remotely upset. It aggravates her.

“Jesus, Trish. I let you believe that Kilgrave had me. I let him touch you…I let him fucking _kiss_ you and you aren’t even going to fucking yell at me?”

She was the one who was yelling now. Trish raises her hands.

“Whoa. Calm down. You know you are truly unbelievable sometimes.”

Now there was a hint of irritation in the blonde.

“You finally put an end to that sonofabitch once and for all and you’re worried I’m mad at you for your methods? Christ, Jess.”

But then Trish’s face softens and she chuckles, shaking her head ever so slightly. Jessica is caught off guard.

“Well…yes, you should be mad,” she replies. “You were terrified. And I…”

“And you did what needed to be done. No real harm done to me.”

Trish was holding her hands in her own, dark eyes piercing their way straight through all of her many walls.

“I trust you,” Trish adds softly.

Jessica looks down, blinking back tears.

“I hate it when you get goddamn mushy on me,” she mutters.

All it takes is for her to raise her eyes and Trish is kissing her gently.

They stay in bed long after they make love.

Jessica has never stayed in bed with anyone after sex except for Trish.

*

She’s nineteen years old and wakes up next to Mark, a guy she met at a college frat party last night. She doesn’t remember most of the night. She finds her clothes and stumbles over beer bottles and a bong on her way out.

Two months later Trish is visiting her on campus. She’s just left when Jessica hears a phone but the notification sound isn’t hers. It’s Trish’s. She’s left it on the desk. Jessica swipes it up and heads for the door. The message flashes on the screen for just a second but Jessica sees it clearly. It’s from Derek, Trish’s boyfriend. It says ‘I love you.’ She’s never known Trish to be in love. With someone else. She catches Trish on the stairs and gives her the phone. She doesn’t mention seeing the message.

Three weeks later she’s sitting in the dark on the stoop of Trish’s apartment building, waiting for someone to either enter or leave so she can get in. It’s cold and the cement hurts her ass. She takes another drag from the glass mouth of the bottle hidden inside the brown paper bag. At last someone walks up to the stairs. He glances down at her, barely masking his distaste as he lets himself in.

“Could you please panhandle somewhere else?” he says to her.

Jessica snorts and rises unsteadily to her feet.

“I’m not panhandling, asshole.”

She shoves past him a little too hard and he curses at her. She ignores it and goes to Trish’s door, banging a little too hard. Trish opens the door, surprise flitting across her face.

“Jess, what’s up? This is unexpected, to say the least.”

She comes in, still clutching the brown paper bag. She takes another drink from it and asks how things with Derek are.

“Good. Really good, actually,” says Trish, clearing some clutter off the love sofa.

“So you guys are serious,” says Jessica. She pokes a finger at the small framed photo of Trish and Derek sitting on an end table. She leaves smudgy fingerprints on it. She can feel Trish’s eyes on her.

“Yea, we are. Why?”

Jessica shrugs.

“Can I have my mug?”

It’s an old white ceramic mug with a tiger on it. It was her favorite when they were growing up. Trish always kept it at her place. Trish lets out a small huff.

“Yea, sure. What’s on your mind, Jess?”

She hands Jessica the mug. Jessica pours some of the Jack Daniel’s into it and offers a toast.

“To the happy couple,” she says and takes a drink.

Trish rolls her eyes.

“You’re more drunk than usual. Somehow I doubt you came all this way to toast my relationship.”

She’s right, of course. Jessica admits as much. And, she adds, for the record she’s not drunk-drunk, just has a heavy buzz. Enough of one that she has no qualms in letting some of her snark seep into her words. She tells herself it’s anger and its color is red, not green.

She asks Trish if she loves Derek. She tells her about seeing the phone message. It’s odd, watching how quickly Trish’s expression changes. Her gaze drops down for a few seconds, lips parted. She slowly runs a hand through her hair.

“I don’t know,” is her answer to Jessica’s question.

“It’s not exactly a gray area,” Jessica replies with a bite.

Trish’s eyes jump up quickly to hers. Her voice is firm.

“I really don’t. I never responded to that text, for your information.”

“Oh come on don’t be such a chicken shit. He said it three weeks ago. I mean, either you love him or you don’t. It’s not complicated.”

She shrugs again and takes another drink, takes another poke at Derek’s smiling face in the smudgy photo.

Trish demands to know why she’s being “grilled” and why Jessica is really here. Jessica’s snark escalates in retaliation, so then so does Trish’s. In a few more minutes they’re yelling at each other. Jessica tells her she hates everything in her apartment. Trish tells her to leave it then.

“Fuck you.”

Jessica has said the phrase to many people over the years but she’s never been able to look Trish in the eye and say it. The booze helps, so she says it as she’s spinning around towards the door.

“Jess, wait. Please.”

It’s always the ‘please’ that gets to her and Jessica’s booted feet stop.

“I don’t love him, okay? Happy now?” Trish demands. “How could I? And it wouldn’t matter if I did.”

At this Jessica slowly turns back to face her, confused. Trish has tears hovering in her eyes.

“There’s no room for him,” she says after wiping at her cheeks.

Jessica takes two small steps towards her. Trish closes the gap, her steps harsh. Her hands are on her hips, eyes wondering all over Jessica’s face.

“You take up too much damned space,” she says.

Jessica blinks. Trish looks mad but her words hit Jessica hard in the chest. Trish looks so raw now, chest heaving slightly. Jessica takes a step back.

“I can’t tell if you’re being an asshole or not.”

“Don’t go.”

And she doesn’t. She’s kissing Trish hard and pushes her onto the couch. Her hands and lips are eager to reclaim what’s hers and what she’s been without since Trish and Derek were serious. It’s a dance number that would become familiar to both of them as the years go by.

She rips Trish’s shirt straight down the front and unhooks her bra with deft fingers. Trish sucks in a sharp breath and arches into her, thighs opening as Jessica ruts against her. She pins Trish’s wrists up above her and starts taking her apart, inch by inch, touch by touch.

*

She’s twenty-two and Trish has just turned twenty-three. They had a party all to themselves on the official day, drinking and listening to 90s rock bands. There’s strawberry cheesecake and chocolate cake and ice cream and they indulge themselves. It feels nice to be creating good memories again, Jessica thinks.

That weekend Trish goes out with what Jessica calls her groupies and some co-workers. She’s heard through the grapevine about the drugs and Trish admitted as much. Jessica objects but isn’t surprised when Trish doesn’t listen. She’s always put too much pressure on herself to please others.

It’s after three in the morning when a stranger calls her from Trish’s phone. She tells Jessica that Trish took too much of some pill and she doesn’t look good. It’s not the first time Jessica’s heart leaps in her throat. It’s not the first time she tries not to picture Trish overdosing. She rushes over to the address.

Trish is cold and clammy. Her eyes are bloodshot. The “friends” who gave her the pills start making excuses. Jessica threatens to re-shape their faces. Someone whispers ‘freak.’

She takes Trish home, half-dragging her there. She stays with her in the bathroom until she throws up, then helps her to her bed.

“Thank you,” says Trish with half-closed eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She reaches out weakly and Jessica takes her hand in her own.

“I know you are. You always are,” she replies. Her voice is a whisper because she’s afraid it might crack.

Trish tugs on her hand.

“Don’t leave me.”

Jessica crawls into the bed. Trish turns on her side, pulling Jessica’s hand so that her arm wraps around Trish’s waist. Jessica curls up behind her, molding her body into Trish’s.

*

She never thought this day would come.

Trish is standing in the doorway. She looks like she still needs to be in the hospital. And maybe she does, because she had just punched Trish hard enough to send her flying through the air a scant few hours ago, because Trish had killed her mother.

“ I’m not a hero,” says Trish. “I don’t know what I am anymore. I just know that I’m your sister.”

Her eyes are pleading, full of unshed tears. For the first time it doesn’t work on Jessica. She’s still completely shook. She swallows hard.

“I look at you now and all I see is the person who killed my mother.”

And she shuts the door on Trish. Her insides are twisting up and her chest feels tight. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs. She quickly goes to the cabinet and grabs the whiskey bottle there. She drinks hard and fast, even for her. She doesn’t want to think about anything. She wants oblivion.

*

Being with Oscar and his son Vito helps, but it’s temporary. She can’t seem to find any lingering peace; even a small crack of light in her dark tunnel.

In the dead of night she wakes up and thinks—still caught up by the sandman—that she could call and talk to Trish about her mother. Then she remembers. The memory cuts and slices at her, maybe worse than the car accident and Kilgrave combined.

The weeks go by. She resumes Alias Investigations and falls back into her routine. She does do some good. It gives her a vague sort of satisfaction for a little while but it always fades. She’s lonely. She goes to Oscar and sleeps with him more and connects with him less and less. He is good and soft-spoken and his arms offer comfort but when they’re in bed she can’t stop herself from wishing they were someone’s arms around her.

Eventually she seeks out other women, thinking it might help. But it only makes it easier for her mind to play tricks on her and to imagine what her heart is telling her who she desperately needs to help fill the hole.

Between alcohol and meaningless sex she finds a perch for herself. It’s thin and precarious but it’s solid and stable in its own way. She dives into her work. Most of her investigative cases are successes. She also helps people on the streets when trouble pops up around her. Many people pass into her home office with looks and words of pure gratitude. They weep and they hug her. She still hates it when they call her a hero from time to time, but there is a definite sense of contentment she feels whenever they look at her that way.

Cautiously, she thinks the feeling might be growing. Slowly. But nothing keeps the nightmares at bay or stops the blackout binges.

*

It’s been a long time since Trish came to her apartment.

She’s just finished a bottle of bourbon when she yells out to the incessant knocking that she’s closed.

“It’s me.”

Her insides freeze up but her feet are taking her to the door all the same. Trish is standing there with bloodshot eyes. Jessica rolls her own and walks back to her desk. She thumps down in her chair and slings a socked foot up on the desk.

“What do you want?” she asks, pretending to look at her computer screen.

Trish slowly walks inside and closes the door behind her.

“I needed to see you,” she says.

“Why? So you can throw more apologies at me?” Jessica retorts. She opens a desk drawer and pulls out a smaller bottle of dark amber.

“No,” says Trish. “I just…I’m going crazy not hearing from you and I can’t stand it.”

Jessica rolls her eyes and pops off the cap of the bourbon. She needs the burn, especially now.

“I know what I did is unforgivable,” Trish continues in a small voice. “I get that now. I just saw her as a murderer, as another Kilgrave…”

Jessica feels her insides seize up despite the amount of liquor she’s had. She slams her laptop closed.

“Stop, just stop, okay? I’m not ready for whatever this is.”

Trish’s hands come out of her coat pockets, palms up.

“I know. I just…I can’t stand the thought that you might hate me. Really hate me.”

Well. Jessica flinches. What she is not ready for is the utter pleading and frightened tone in Trish’s voice, like a starving puppy begging for the last scrap it sees. If it were anyone else standing before her, she might call them pathetic. But that would imply she has no feelings in the matter.

She wishes she didn’t.

“Jesus, Trish. Go home. Go to bed.”

She doesn’t know what else to say that’s not a barrage of spiteful insults—insults she doesn’t want to use even if she could.

“Jess, _please._ ”

Jessica shoots up from the chair and throws her arms up. She’s trying her best, goddamnit. She just wants to be alone. Everything hurts and aches when Trish is gone but at least Jessica is clear-headed that way—relatively speaking, she thinks, taking another drink.

“I’m not leaving until you say it,” Trish grits out. She’s struggling so hard; Jessica can see it on her face. There’s tremendous suffering there.

“Tell me you hate me and I’ll go.”

The command sends quiet shock waves through her.

“What the fuck is this?” Jessica demands. “An ultimatum? Go _home.”_

She says it with even more force this time, hoping she can at least sound hateful. Trish is shaking her head, tears on her cheeks now. She steps closer. Jessica sighs. 

“Goddamnit, Trish…” 

She closes the gap between them and Trish flinches. Not just in her face but her whole body. Jessica recognizes it instantly; it’s the body language of someone who’s been physically abused. 

That part of the night rushes back to her and Jessica bites back a noise in her throat. She hadn’t meant to hit her that hard. She really had not. Maybe she should just mainline the bourbon tonight. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

Her voice comes out small and quiet. Trish looks at her. There’s so much uncertainty on her face that Jessica’s iron will cracks. 

“Trish, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I swear.” 

And of course it’s true, dear god, it was true. She pulls herself together with every last ounce she has, letting her arms drop to her sides. Perhaps it’s better if she looks at the door. It takes some effort to speak in an even tone. 

“You should go.” 

Trish’s face cracks wide open. A sob escapes and Jessica is certain her own heart is physically breaking in two. She glances over to see Trish compose herself, face turning stony. She shrugs. 

“Maybe scoring some coke will give me some comfort, at least.” 

That does it. Fury pulses through Jessica’s veins and she reaches out and grabs Trish before she can march out the door. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Don’t you _dare._ ” 

Trish’s stone face shatters like glass and she chokes back another sob. Jessica pulls her close and crushes her lips into Trish’s hard. A startled sound escapes the blonde’s lips and for a split second she pulls back, but then her lips and her body are crushing into Jessica’s at full force. Her hands thread themselves with purpose through Jessica’s ink-black hair. 

A strangle moan rumbles in Jessica’s throat. As good as it feels to have Trish touching her this way, there’s still a desperation to it that Jessica can’t abide. She gently grabs Trish’s wrists to make her stop. Trish’s lips seek out hers but Jessica pulls back. 

“Trish look at me.” 

Trish’s red-rimmed eyes still as she refocuses on her friend’s face. 

“I don’t hate you,” Jessica says. “I could never hate you.” 

Her voice shakes despite her effort to sound as monotonous as she usually does. The relief that passes through Trish’s face isn’t subtle at all and Jessica feels like an asshole. If it were anyone else, she would feel justified in her anger, but she can’t bear the thought of Trish thinking she hates her. 

Trish’s lips part as if to speak. Jessica swears she can hear her own heartbeat in the few seconds’ worth of silence. Then Trish is kissing her again. 

The kisses are less frantic, more deep. Trish’s lips travel down to her neck, then under her jawline. The skin there is particularly sensitive and Trish knows it. She sucks gentle kisses on Jessica’s skin. Hot chills zing down Jessica’s body. A familiar throb starts between her legs. And then Trish just stops. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, chest heaving slightly. “We shouldn’t. I barged in and you weren’t ready. I don’t want you to regret anything.” 

Jessica’s sigh is a blend of frustration and happy exhilaration. She sucks at this kind of talk so she just says the first thing she can think of. 

“Okay, everything you just said is wrong. Shut up and come here.” 

She pulls Trish to her, hands slinking up Trish’s shirt and inside her bra. Trish’s eyes slide closed. 

“Oh shit. Are you sure?” she asks in a heavy pant. 

“Pretty sure,” Jessica replies between kisses. 

There are so many words swirling around like a tornado in her brain of things she thinks she should say. But they can only ever spin around ceaselessly. _I need you. I don’t know what I’d do without. You make me feel human._

Jessica wants to say all of them, but she doesn’t know how. She can’t simply speak them the way other people do. When they’ve made it to the bed and Trish is under her, looking up at her with need. She should say at least one of those things spinning in her head. 

“Trish, I…” 

She’s breathing hard. Trish shifts under her and runs her hands down Jessica’s arms softly. It’s very distracting. Her thoughts scatter. Goddamnit. 

“Hey,” Trish says in a silken tone. 

She’s looking at Jessica like she knows every single thing she wants to say but can’t, and just like that Jessica relaxes. The irony isn’t lost on her, that despite all the times over the years she’s protected Trish, it’s moments like this that Jessica feels the safest. 

Trish tugs her down and their bodies mold into one another’s perfectly. Jessica’s fingers find their way down to Trish’s soft wet folds. She expertly moves around, eliciting little tremors and moans from Trish. But then Trish’s lidded eyes refocus and she lifts her hand to between Jessica. She finds Jessica’s clit instantly. The touch is like soaking water on parched lips and Jessica inhales sharply. Her hips seem to move of their own accord, responding as Trish touches her. She loses her concentration on what her own fingers are doing. Trish takes the opportunity to push her down and onto her back, fingers never leaving her wetness. 

Jessica lets her legs fall open. Trish rubs two, then three fingers over her and her swelling clit. It feels better than the most expensive bourbon could ever taste. Jessica finds a certain rhythm and Jessica’s back arches, eyes closing. She wishes she could bottle up the best parts of Trish and drink her every day. 

“Oh fuck, you feel so good,” she moans out. It isn’t exactly the declaration of love she’d been wanting to express, but when she opens her eyes Trish is gazing at at her with soft, heavy eyes and flushed cheeks. She moves down Jessica’s body and kisses her stomach, her next most sensitive area. Her soft and reddened lips graze lightly over Jessica’s hips, almost to the point of tickling but not quite. Instead it sends more hot chills through Jessica’s body. Trish’s fingers keep her slick and throbbing but she needs more. 

Trish doesn’t tease her for long. Her mouth begins travelling further south. She kisses the skin right above Jessica’s clit, bottom lip ghosting over it. Then the tip of her tongue laves over her opening and all the way to her clit just before Trish plunges her fingers inside her. Jessica grabs hold of long blonde hair and fists it, unable to stop the shaky moan from passing over her lips. Trish works her methodically until Jessica’s orgasm rolls up from deep inside her. When it hits she pushes hard against the mattress, mouth open and eyes screwed shut. Her legs tremble and her pussy flutters uncontrollably against Trish’s mouth and fingers. 

Trish’s fingers slow down to a crawl inside her as little aftershocks take hold of her. Then full and wet lips are kissing over hers again. Jessica feels tears prick the corner of her eyes. She wraps her legs around Trish’s waist and her arms cling to the other woman. 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

She’s said it before, of course. But not like this, in their most intimate moments. Not for a long time. 

She puts her thoughts into action instead, once she’s caught her breath and Trish looks sleepy beside her. She rolls onto her side and pushes her fingers inside Trish. Their foreheads press together. Trish is soaking wet and her center is hot. She comes with her breath mingling against Jessica’s. 

Afterwards Jessica pulls out a flask from her bedside drawer and takes a long pull from it. Trish is watching her. 

“How’s that after sex?” she muses, nodding to the flask. 

“Not as good as the sex,” Jessica replies without thinking about it. 

Trish quirks an eyebrow at her. 

“Seriously?” 

Jessica nods, setting the flask down. 

“It will never taste as good as you.” 

She grins, but Trish is looking at her as though she’s quoted Shakespeare or the Bible or pledged her life to charity. Jessica squirms a little and rolls her eyes. 

“Come on, don’t get gross on me,” she drawls out. 

Trish beams at her, sucking in her bottom lip again. She nudges Jessica’s shoulder. 

“Okay. Hey…” 

“Yea?” 

“Are we okay, at least?” 

“We are.” 

“Good. We should still talk.” 

Jessica turns on her side to look at her. She reaches up and pushes a strand of errant blonde hair behind Trish’s ear. 

“I know. But not yet.” 

“Okay.” 

Jessica feels awkward. She’s no good at pillow talk or anything resembling it, but then Trish lays her head down on Jessica’s lap and Jessica’s fingers automatically sift through her hair. They still had plenty to talk about and a lot of it wouldn’t be pleasant. But she would get through it and wind up intact on the other side. She could always believe in that, if nothing else, as long as she wasn’t alone. 


End file.
